Like sand through the fingers
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: Infirmary room PWP. Canon, you say? What is canon? MichaelSara


"Can I ask you something?" Katie asked as she picked up her coat and bag, her suspicious eyes observing Sara as she read the reports once more.

"Yeah."

"Why do you care so much?"

"Because he lied to me," came Sara's reply as she stared at the file spread in front of her. It was not the whole truth, but at least there was some truth to it. She couldn't begin to explain to Katie why she cared about Michael Scofield's unusual profile. She couldn't explain it to herself. Sara Tancredi was a lot of things, but she wasn't one to be content with a generality and a shrug when something aroused her curiosity.

"They all lie to you," Katie reminded her.

Of course they did, not that it had ever bothered her before. Probably because none of the inmates she had treated since she had landed the job would have gone out of their way to defend her like he had. Actually, she could name a few who would rather have joined the show.

But he had taken risks to come to her rescue and literally abduct her from the crowd that was about to rape her in turn. He flirted with her, day after day, sometimes to the point of making her forget where they were and why they were there. And still, he kept lying through his teeth without once losing his charming smile.

Days later, after having met Michael's former psychiatrist and been pushed away again as she had tried a more frontal approach during one of his consultations, she found herself even more at loss as to his personality and motives. Why she felt the need to understand him and see through his lies, she couldn't say. It was a line she was not ready to cross, not even in her own thoughts. It was much easier to tell herself it was only a matter of providing the best care to a patient.

She knew he was putting on a show for her and she needed to know why, because despite her best efforts to remain immune to his charm act, she was everything but unaffected. It was infuriating, really, to feel herself react to his deceiving smile, the hypnotizing velvety sound of his voice and those blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her professional mask, all the while knowing it was only a façade that hid something darker he wouldn't let her see.

She wanted to know what he concealed, to catch a glimpse of his secret shadows and inner torments. The more he eluded her, the more he obsessed her. Katie had mockingly called her a stalker, and well, she didn't know the beginning of it.

What had made him that way? What extent of abandon and misery could he have known as a child to become the man he was, with his self-esteem issues, saviour complex and duplicitous behaviour, imprisoned for an unexplainable robbery? He had piqued her curiosity so efficiently she felt compelled to study him with the same application that had drove her through med school. She needed to understand the mechanics and thinking patterns of Michael Scofield, and felt like she wouldn't rest until she had documented them all.

But every time she felt like she was getting closer, he pirouetted and took a few steps back, leaving her confused and reluctantly dragging herself back to square one. He was slipping through her fingers, defying her, mocking her and intriguing her even more. What was worse, he was aware of her interest. His satisfied smile told her that much.

And none of it helped her to sleep through the night.

The day it happened, she woke up feeling sick to her stomach, a sense of dread knotting her insides with the certainty that something would happen that day, something entirely wrong and inevitable. She had felt the same way the morning of the riot, as she drove to the penitentiary, and the memory made her cringe and reflexively wrap her arms against her chest in a uselessly defensive gesture. She considered calling in sick, before laughing at her own cowardice in face of a solely hypothetic danger. She wasn't that sort of woman. She had accepted the minimal amount of risks that went along with the job long ago, even though the recent events had weakened her certitudes.

But her day turned out to be uneventful, if a little busier. She examined a long string of inmates complaining about real or imaginary trouble, painful stomachs, aching throats. This one had eaten something wrong, the other hadn't been able to sleep for days, the third one had been beaten up for looking at another the wrong way.

She wished that just once, one of her patients would tell her what really bothered him. That he felt lonely and miserable, missed his family, or was simply afraid in this place packed with men stronger, more aggressive than the other.

But it wouldn't happen on that day that was nothing but ordinary, especially in light of the recent suicide of Bagwell's cellmate. Suicides always made for a busy week. As this thought passed through her, along with a light annoyance, she realised, not for the first time, how much of a cynic she had become.

Her last appointment was with the one man in this place that made ever feel anything but cynicism.

"Hi," Michael Scofield greeted simply as he went to lay on the examination bed to let her look at his injured feet, his fingers tapping an imaginary rhythm on each side of the metallic structure. It irritated her, she found. _He_ irritated her, with his non-committal responses and avoidant retorts.

"Has it been bothering you today?"

"Not really, although showering with that bandage is a little trying."

When she didn't reply, he raised his eyes to meet hers, expecting to find the usual encouraging smile she always kept for him while she examined her, but found nothing but a guarded face and a pair of furrowed brows.

"Your sleeve, please," she asked as she prepared the needle, and he noticed her hand shook ever so lightly.

"Sara," he tried, "is everything okay?"

"Sure," she huffed, purposely looking away.

"Did I do something…"

"I want to thank you again for what happened," she cut him off, "you know, during the riot. It was really noble of you. I wonder what made you put yourself through all that trouble."

"I told you, you don't have to thank me," he replied, unsure of what her obvious disgruntlement was about. "I couldn't watch idly and not try to do something…"

"If it weren't for you, I'd have been gang raped by a pack of enraged prisoners, so I do think thanks are in order. Especially since you could have been beaten up, or even killed in a process. How could I ever repay you?" she asked, her voice far from expressing the gratitude her words implied.

"Have dinner with me," he replied as a large seductive smile grew on his face, hoping he could somehow diffuse the tension that filled the room.

"I beg you pardon?" she asked, startled.

"When I'm out of here, have dinner with me. Just once." He frowned before adding, "I don't know where you'd like to go, though. What's you're favourite food?"

"Michael, we've been through this already…" she replied and chuckled against her better will at the expression of sheer bemusement set on his face.

"Come on, humour me. What's your favourite food, Sara? If it's our only date, I'd rather you enjoyed it. Or at least, not have an allergic reaction I didn't know you had."

"If I told you I have a thing for the Pepperoni Lover's, would you take me to Pizza Hut?"

"I… don't think I'd believe you,"

Cursing herself for letting him drag her into this little game again, she smiled reluctantly before saying, "Okay then, how do you feel about French cuisine?"

"I hope you don't mean frog legs and snails," he retorted, wrinkling his nose.

"Uhm, no. I was thinking something more conventional."

"French it is, then," he replied with his brightest smile, settling the matter of the imaginary date that both knew would never take place.

"Okay. One dinner. You'll drive me home by 10 o'clock and _no_ coffee upstairs."

"How do you know you won't find me so charming you'll want to invite me up for a drink?"

"How do you know you won't think I'm so stuck-up and boring you'll want nothing to do with me ever again?"

His voice sounded huskier than he intended it to when he replied, "Somehow, I doubt that would happen."

"I'm 29 and single. I might have hidden defects," she informed him and grinned when her gaze met his sparkling eyes.

"_Or_ you just like to keep your options open in case you meet someone irresistible at work."

"It has to be it," she laughed, shaking her head.

"By the time we have this dinner, I'll be a tattooed ex-con with nothing but the memory of a career. Hardly makes for the most eligible bachelor in town. I think I'll be able to over look a flaw or two."

"You don't know anything about me, Michael," she replied, her voice lower, a sudden gravity evident in her tone. They both knew they weren't talking about the fantasy dinner anymore, but of the here and now and the dense fabric of unspoken truths that stood between them like a thick brick wall.

"I know enough," he whispered, his hand finder hers to lightly stroke her open palm.

Sara froze, staring at their touching hands, a million thoughts and contradictory feelings colliding in her mind, fighting for dominance. There were so many reasons to push his hand away and send him back to his cell without another word. It would only take a little tap on the door to have a guard escort him back. There was also an excellent reason not to. She was drawn to this man, unreasonably and thoroughly. The more she fought it, the harder it got to ignore.

Sara didn't move or speak, she only stared at his fingers so intently the light kiss he placed on her lips startled her. She moved back to meet her eyes, and saw a surprise there that mirrored her own.

She should run, she knew. She should run and make sure she was never alone in a room with him ever again. It was the wise thing to do, but years of reckless behaviour had taught her that wisdom was most definitely not her strong suit. Seconds later, she felt herself brush his mouth with her own, her lips parting to accommodate his as she felt his tongue tentatively run across her bottom lip. Her brain was screaming at her to back off, but her body seemed to ignore the nagging voice of reason. Then she felt his skin, surprisingly soft under her fingers, and realised her hands had locked around his neck of their own accord.

"Michael…" she breathed against his mouth as a blinding panic set in her chest and his hands searched for the lower buttons of her shirt, under her doctor coat. That was it. Inevitable but oh so wrong. She should always trust her instincts, she reflected idly as she tried and failed to step away from him.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered as he slowly stroked the pale skin of her waist.

"We shouldn't…" she started to say, but her next words were muffled by another kiss, a kiss she initiated and felt deeper, hungrier than the previous ones.

"Tell me to stop, Sara," he demanded again as her shirt fell to the ground along with her white coat and her hands crept to his chest, under his uniform.

"Don't," she breathed heavily against his mouth. And then there was no going back because she felt her knees melt as his hands found her breasts, beneath her bra, to stroke the hardening peaks not so gently, and she couldn't remember the last time she had felt something so exhilarating since she had regained her sobriety.

Her last coherent thought led her to push him away from the examination table and against the side of the wall that was hidden by the folding screen. He rolled them until she was firmly pressed against the wall, their whole length touching, his arousal pushing insistently against her lower stomach. She let him lift her shirt up and bit her lip to silence the low moan that threatened to burst out as his lips and teeth found her nipple and teased her senseless, until she had to pull his head up and back to her mouth for fear of not being able to keep quiet anymore.

He kissed her again, deliberately, passionately, as his hands fumbled with the buttons of her pants and a daring hand found its way to the inside of her panties to stroke her burning core. His fingers explored her tentatively at first, gauging her reactions, before growing confident and teasing, making her pant and shiver until she couldn't take any more.

"Michael," she half whispered, half moaned as she felt the tide of her orgasm rise steadily, "Michael, stop, I'm gonna… I want you…"

She felt an almost imperceptible nod against her cheek and his hand left her centre, only to push her pants and underwear down. She undid his pants in turn and his hands grabbed her bottom to lift her up. Her legs locked around his waist moments before she felt him enter her slowly, her breath sounding ragged and precarious to her own ears with the waves of pleasure that washed through her when he started moving. He pushed inside her in long, slow strokes, so gentle and patient she had to beg him to bring her to the climax that felt so close she could almost taste it.

"Michael, please," she panted against his ear, "harder, I'm about to... Please…"

He let out a long sigh and slammed into her once, twice, his hands falling to their joined bodies to stroke her again, and with the third blow she felt the tide of pleasure rise again from her groin to her head, engulfing her completely. She gritted her teeth to keep quiet as she came in shaky bursts of bliss, unravelling against Michael's strong body, pressing him further into her until he started shaking in turn.

Was it really him, in that moment? Was she touching the truth of Michael Scofield as she felt, more than heard, the stifled groan he let out against her neck as he was on the verge of coming inside her?

Sara felt him tremble and tense before his body relaxed completely and he buried his face in her hair. She held him tightly against her chest, memorizing the peculiar smell of his skin, the tickling feel of his almost shaven hair against her cheek, the warmth of his rapid breath, burning the sensations in her memory to recall them later, when she'd lay awake in bed, alone with her loneliness and unanswered questions.

She might never know who Michael Scofield really was, the same way she'd never let him know about her past, the morphine and its unforgettable thrill, or the dying kid she left lying on the pavement that still haunted her nightmares. But could he be right? Did they know enough? Could something grow from a nest of secrets and lies, something that wouldn't destroy them both? Would he ever stop slipping through her fingers like the finest sand she had ever touched?

Moments later, he disentangled himself from her and they shared a long, meaningful look that screamed all the questions and answers they'd never dare to say out loud, both knowing the other could only second-guess those truths that weren't meant to be shared.

They dressed silently, helping each other to rearrange their ruffled appearance as they exchanged timid, disbelieving smiles, until came the time when they couldn't justify his presence a second longer.

"Shrimp," she exclaimed as he walked to the door, delighting in his look of surprise and incomprehension.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm allergic to shrimp. Remember that for, you know, that dinner date you're coercing me into," she added, her bright smile reflecting his. Sara Tancredi was a lot of things -curious. self-destructive, thrill-seeking, inclined to experiment. Cautious just wasn't one of them. Maybe one day she'd fall hard enough to learn.


End file.
